But the next moment there was a sudden rush that took every one by surprise, for not a word was uttered by their assailants, the thud, thud, thud of heavy blows, the breathing hard of men scuffling, followed by splash after splash, and then one of the schooner's masts seemed to give way and fall heavily upon Fitz Burnett's head, turning the dimly-seen deck and the struggling men into something so black that he saw no more. CHAPTER THREE. WAKING UP. It is a curious sensation to be lying on your back you don't know where, and you can't think of the reason why it should be so, but with your head right off, completely detached from your body, and rolling round and round like an exceedingly heavy big ball, that for some inexplicable reason has been pitched into a vast mill on purpose to be ground, but, probably from its thickness and hardness, does not submit to that process, but is always going on and on between the upper stone and nether stone, suffering horrible pain, but never turning into powder, nor even into bits, but going grinding on always for a time that seems as if it would never end unless the millstones should wear away. That is what seemed to be the matter with Fitz Burnett, for how long he could not tell. But a change came at last, with the gnawing, grinding pain becoming dull. Later on it did not seem that his head was detached from his body, and he had some undefined idea that his hands were where he could move them, and at last, later on still, he found himself lying in comparative calmness and in no pain, but in a state something between sleeping and waking. Then came a time when he began to think that it was very dark, that he was very tired, and that he wanted to sleep, and so he slept. Then again that it was very light, very warm, and that something seemed to be the matter with his berth, for he was thinking more clearly now. He knew he was lying on his back in his berth, and curiously enough he knew that it was not his berth, and while he was wondering why this was, something tickled his nose. Naturally enough as the tickling went on, passing here and there, he attributed it to a fly upon his face, and his instinct suggested to him to knock it off. He made a movement to do this quickly and suddenly, but his hand fell back upon his chest--whop! It was only a light touch, but he heard it distinctly, and as the movement resulted in dislodging the fly, he laughed to himself, perfectly satisfied. He felt very comfortable and went to sleep again. Hours must have passed, and it was light once more. He turned his head and looked towards that light, to see that it was dancing and flashing upon beautiful blue water all rippled and playing under the influence of a gentle breeze. He could not see much of it, for he was only looking through a round cabin-window. This was puzzling, for there was no such window as that in the gunboat, and the mental question came--where was he?